


At A Glance

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Captain John Watson, Gen, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock is a Doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:20:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22266268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: John's going to try one more specialist, and only because Stamford made the appointment for him. Apparently this Dr. Holmes is pretty good...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 19
Kudos: 81





	At A Glance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KRH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KRH/gifts).



> I had to do a little research for this one - Sherlock's a physiatrist, a physical medicine and rehab physician.  
> Prompt at the end if you're interested.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, krh. Thank you.

John stood in front of the hospital, trying to do what his first therapist had told him. He breathed deeply, pulling the air into his lungs and holding it before releasing. Allow the emotion to be, don’t push it down, give it space.

What a load of crap, he thought, rolling his shoulder reflexively.

He was only here because his therapist told him there wasn’t much more he could do unless John actually took some of his suggestions. This was the lesser of the evils, from John’s perspective. At least it was something he hadn’t tried before. Every scan in the world had revealed his shoulder was stable and according to the half dozen specialists he’d seen, there was nothing preventing it from functioning normally.

Nobody even bothered looking at his leg once they’d read the therapist’s reports. John knew the PTSD and referred pain diagnoses more or less shut down a lot of professionals, and he’d stopped going when each passed him on to yet another specialist. This time, he promised himself, squaring his shoulders, this was the last time. He was sick of the same conversation, the pity in their eyes and the over-long handshakes.

Apparently this guy was different. Stamford insisted and told John he’d get an appointment the following week if he dropped Stamford’s name.

“Does he owe you a favour or something?” John asked.

“Something like that,” Stamford said, grinning. “I’ll call him for you, will I?”

John could see Stamford knew he wouldn’t do it himself, and when the text arrived the next day, he was curious enough to agree to go. It had taken all his control not to Google the name; surely there would only be one Sherlock Holmes, physiatrist in the Greater London area.

John arrived ten minutes early and settled into a seat in the waiting room. Back to the corner, all exits within view; he made these choices without thinking anymore, and he couldn’t tell where the military training finished and the PTSD began. It was all the same result anyway. The tension in his body grew as the minutes ticked along and by the time he was an hour past his appointment time, John was almost going to get up and leave when the door flew open and someone swept in, coat swirling dramatically. Icy blue eyes took in the room, raking over him before the tall man bent to the receptionist and asked a question.

“John Watson,” the man said, his voice surprisingly deep for someone so slight.

John stood up, surprised. Others had been here before him, but the doctor – assuming that was he – didn’t notice the disgruntled mutterings of the other patients as he lead John down a short corridor and into his examination room.

“You should have been here six months ago,” he said, without introducing himself.

“I beg your pardon?” John said. He’d followed the man in, closing the door at the impatient flap of a long fingered hand, but in the absence of an offer to sit John elected to stand. He could feel the hairs on his arms standing to attention even as he fell automatically into parade rest.

The doctor’s eyes were sweeping up and down his body, lingering on his shoulder and leg and the fingers flexing on his walking stick before he sighed and sat back in his chair. He pulled out his phone, wincing at something before returning it to his pocket.

“Six months,” he repeated. “Wasted time, and therapeutically speaking, it has compounded the problems with your shoulder and hip. It will considerably extend your rehabilitation time.”

“Who are you?” John blurted. This guy’s bedside manner was rubbish, assuming he was even a doctor at all.

“Really, John, you follow a strange man down a corridor and close the door, and you have no idea who I am?”

“I assumed you were this Dr. Holmes, but you certainly don’t sound like you’ve remembered your training,” John shot back.

“The name’s Holmes, Sherlock Holmes,” the man said smoothly his eyes not leaving John’s face. “I’m your physiatrist.”

“Really,” John said, allowing the scepticism free to colour his voice. He crossed his arms and raised one eyebrow.

“I’m the best there is,” Dr. Holmes said with a trace of boredom, “and in fact Stamford wouldn’t have pulled a string to get you in if you hadn’t tried everyone else.” He raised one eyebrow. “Are you interested in my assessment or would you prefer to leave with your impairments and your pride intact?”

John barked a laugh, aware his spine was ramrod straight. He should leave. This was crazy. But when he opened his mouth what came out was, “Go on, then.”

The blue eyes gleamed as a smirk crossed Dr. Holmes’ face. “Left shoulder injury, impacting functional movement in all planes,” he said. “Structurally, I’d say you have ligament and tendon shortening and a measure of muscular atrophy, most of which can be corrected depending on how much mobility you actually want from the joint.” He tilted his head. “The psychosomatic pain I’d say you’ve had diagnosed in your leg is actually only partly so. Your hip is misaligned and fixing it will significantly improve your pain and probably mean you can get rid of that.” He jerked his chin to John’s walking stick. “The delay in treatment means the rest of your pelvis and lower spine will also need work as they’ve been trying to compensate.” He sighed. “Trying and failing, of course.”

“Mike forwarded you my records?” John asked in astonishment.

“No,” Dr. Holmes replied. “And it’s Sherlock, not Dr. Holmes.”

“I thought you said-” John started.

“I can see you thinking it,” Sherlock interrupted. “I can see you’re an Army doctor, invalided out but only arriving back in London recently from either Afghanistan or Iraq. Probably six months since you were discharged. The tiny walk up flat is depressing and certainly not helping your pain. Neither’s the bad mattress or the fact you’re not eating properly – getting a job would help both those problems. As for the medical assessment,” he sat back, clearly pleased with himself, “I told you, I’m the best.”

John looked at him, speechless. “Brilliant,” he breathed.

“Brilliant?” Sherlock repeated, raising one eyebrow. “Not what most people say.”

“Most people are idiots,” John replied.

Sherlock’s half smile broadened into a full grin. “Indeed they are,” he murmured.

“So you want to tell me how you knew all that?” John asked. He could feel himself on high alert, but it wasn’t the same as when he was about to have a panic attack. It was more like…more like right before his team hit a target.

Anticipation instead of dread.

“Observation and deduction,” Sherlock shrugged. “Your gait, stance and the way you roll your shoulder when you’re anxious tell me what I need to know about your body. The walking stick means the limp is more severe than it really should be, though you don’t rely on it when you’re standing, so there’s a psychosomatic component. Your tan ends at the wrist and combined with your obvious military bearing means serving somewhere sunny.” A flash of amusement as he admitted, “Stamford did tell me it was six months since you left hospital.”

John found himself grinning. “And the flat?”

Sherlock shrugged. “A recently discharged soldier who stays overseas until the money runs out isn’t going to have a fancy flat or be eating properly. Your shirt is half a size too big, so you’ve recently lost weight, and with a half past ten appointment on a Wednesday, it’s unlikely you have a job.”

John grinned again. “True,” he allowed.

“Do you want one?” Sherlock asked bluntly.

“What?”

“I need an assistant,” Sherlock said. “Someone to do the,” he waved one hand, “boring things.” His lip turned up as he admitted, “the hospital thinks I should be working in a team.”

“I get the impression you don’t work well with others,” John said dryly.

“Other people don’t work well with me,” Sherlock shot back.

John raised one eyebrow. “So why me?” he said. His heart was beating fast. For some reason the answer to this question was important.

“You need excitement,” Sherlock said. “Something different from the standard flu shots and lonely old ladies you’d get in a standard clinic.”

“And this would be exciting, would it?” John said, his heart in his mouth. How could it be otherwise?

Sherlock shrugged. “Give it a try,” he said. Though there was a challenge there, John though he could hear tension that belied the casual comment.

_This matters to him._

A shot of adrenalin coursed through him. It had been a long time since someone wanted him for something important.

“I’ll think about it,” John said, nodding once.

“Very well,” Sherlock said. He glanced at his watch. “Same time tomorrow?”

John raised that eyebrow again. He had a feeling that would be a useful expression dealing with Sherlock. “The time I booked or the time I was actually seen?” he said.

“Either,” Sherlock replied carelessly.

John nodded again trying to hold back his grin, and they both left the room, John following Sherlock back down the hall to the waiting room. He’d barely stepped out of the hall when he was confronted with a very large, very angry man, shouting at Sherlock and poking his finger into the doctor’s chest.

“Hey,” John started, but the man wasn’t paying him any attention. Sherlock looked bored, which certainly wasn’t helping, and when the aggressive man leaned back for a second, Sherlock stepped around behind the desk.

“If you’re so disappointed with the service here, you’re welcome to leave,” Sherlock told him. “From what little progress I’ve been seeing you haven’t been doing your exercises anyway. Or perhaps it’s the cheap mattress your mistress keeps that’s continuing to exacerbate your back?”

The man roared, and John acted without thinking. He moved automatically, and before anyone could blink he’d restrained the much larger man on the floor, sitting astride his back with one wrist twisted uncomfortably. John’s hip twinged when he realised how wide he was stretching it, but it hadn’t prevented him moving. Nor had his shoulder, though he could feel he’d stretched that too far as well.

Huh.

Sherlock was right, then.

“Sherlock?” John asked, suddenly aware of the complete silence in the waiting room.

Sherlock met his eyes, the satisfaction telling John he might as well have been reading John’s mind. “Let him go,” Sherlock said finally.

“I suggest you find another provider,” John told the man as he let him up.

“Who the hell are you?” the man sputtered.

“Doctor John Watson,” John said smoothly. “Formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, currently Practice Manager here. As I said, you’ll need to find another provider.”

He easily matched the man’s glower, not moving until the door shut behind him. Glancing around, John said to the room at large, “Apologies for your wait today.” He glanced at Sherlock, who managed to look both smug and stunned. “Rest assured we’ll be working much closer to time in the future.”

As people started talking again, John took a deep breath, automatically clenching his fist as the adrenalin in his system slowly dissipated.

“Welcome aboard,” Sherlock said, smirking. “Practice Manager?”

“Yes,” John said without blinking. “That’s clearly what you need. You do your deduction thing, I’ll manage everything else.” Another rise of his eyebrow. “Any questions?”

A slow smile spread over Sherlock’s face. “No, John,” he said. There was a pause before he said casually, “Your walking stick’s over there, by the way. You’ll feel that in your hip and shoulder tomorrow.”

John stared after him as he called the next patient, his own slow smile growing as he shook his head.

_Berk._

Another beat and he turned to the receptionist, introducing himself even as his body sang with possibilities. His future was finally looking up.

Brilliant.

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was thus: "I'd love to read something where Sherlock is a physiatrist, who is of course a brilliant diagnostician with a dubious bedside manner. John is his patient, then colleague."


End file.
